


Sting Like a Bee

by rosethomass (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hate Sex, M/M, Shower Sex, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:09:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/rosethomass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester, major league boxer, goes up against rookie Cas Novak. And he doesn't like him one bit. Until they get into the ring and Cas is sweaty and panting, pretty and bruised. (Hinted Sam/Gabriel). Warnings: a bit of a bruise and blood kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sting Like a Bee

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing Destiel??? Whaaatttt???? 
> 
> Last night was the Canelo vs. Mayweather match and I fell in love with the ginger beauty that is Canelo Alvarez and wanted nothing more to see him all beaten up, pretty and bruised and bleeding. *w*
> 
> Also written for Moani because she wanted me to write something for her to read on her plane.
> 
> And excuse me for not knowing how exactly backstages/locker rooms work with major league boxing. I only see what happens on the ring. So if you have know what happens and this is nothing like that, I claim poetic license. :)
> 
> Sorry for any typos and the lame title.

If Dean could choose one thing he loves more than actually being in the ring, it’s being in the locker room before and after each fight. Especially if he’s fighting with someone he’s fought with before. Usually, he builds up a friendly rapport with them and they can goof around in the locker room before going out and acting like hostile douchebags to each other for the fans and the cameras, then coming back in and joking about it. No one is allowed in the locker room other than the fighters, coaches, and spotters, so they don’t have to put up a testosterone-ridden act for anyone.

Dean’s never fought this guy before, though. He’s a rookie, emerged out of nowhere a few months ago and climbed the ranks quickly enough to be matching up against Dean. Now, Dean’s not one to brag about his skill, but he knows he’s good. Not the best out there, but close enough and quickly catching up. He’s been at this for years and has accumulated decent fame.

This guy is still pretty unknown, but Sam’s been doing recon on his practice and training fights, and according to him, he’s really good. He’s quick on his feet with sharp reflexes and if Sam considers him a threat, then Dean’s going to take him seriously.

“Hey, man,” he greets amiably, smiling at his opponent. He’s got dark hair and light blue eyes, and he’s young. He’s pretty, like Dean used to be when he started and kind of still is. He had had plenty of guys calling him ‘pretty boy’ during smack talk as a rookie, and he’s sure this guy has had his fair share of it as well. If he’s as good as Sam says he is, in a few years no one will dare call him that, just like with Dean. “Novak, right?”

“On the ring,” he answers. “I prefer Cas outside of the ring. Should I refer to you as ‘Dean’ or ‘Winchester’?”

Dean grinned. “Dean.” Cas nodded curtly.

Cas’ coach-slash-spotter moved along behind Cas, arranging his fighter’s things. He hung up Cas’ robe on a hook, and Dean examined it briefly. You could tell a lot about a fighter from his robe’s design. Cas’ was simple, white and sky-blue, with a gold trim on the back in the shape of wings.

“So, you got any money on tonight?” Dean joked, and could practically _feel_ Sam rolling his eyes behind him. It was a lame line that he used to break the ice with his opponents, but it usually worked.

“No, but Gabriel does,” Castiel commented, pulling out the wrist bandages from his duffel bag. “They’re on you.”

Cas’ coach-slash-spotter—Gabriel, apparently—turned around and winked at Dean, who frowned in confusion. He looked at Sam over his shoulder, and his brother shrugged, just as confused.

“Was that a joke?” Dean asked.

Cas glanced up at him. “No. How much was it Gabriel?”

“Not much,” Gabriel replied. “Only twenty bucks. Anything more would feel like cheating.”

“Cheating?” Sam piped up.

“Sure! Putting too much money on someone you _know_ is going to win.” Gabriel cocked his head. “That’s just downright shady. I only put in a little money because I’m only a little shady.”

Cas grinned a bit as he wrapped the bandages around his wrists.

There was an uneasy feeling in Dean’s gut. “How…how do you _know_ I’m going to win? I hear Cas is a pretty decent fighter.”

“Oh, he’s more than _pretty decent,_ ” Gabriel said smugly.

“I know you’re going to win,” Cas said, “because I’m going to let you.”

Dean’s brows shot up into his hairline and he looked to Sam, whose expression was mirroring his. “Excuse me?”

Cas paused his work on the bandages to look Dean full in the eye. “I’m good enough to beat you. I am not, however, good enough to beat those better than you. If I beat you tonight, there will be too much expected from me too fast. I don’t want to win tonight, I just want to make myself known by putting up a decent fight with such a skilled boxer. That way, I can gradually make my way up the ranks instead of being catapulted up too early.”

Dean’s jaw was kind of slack. It sounded like some kind of joke. “You’re going to _let_ me win? You’re saying you’re not going to beat me, because you _don’t feel like it_?”

Cas nodded. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, but that is the basic idea, yes.”

Dean had dealt with some arrogant dicks in his life, but this took the cake. And the real kicker was that this douchebag wasn’t even trying to sound cocky or arrogant, he just honestly believed that he was better than Dean. A simple fact of life, like water was wet and the sky was blue and Gabriel was blatantly checking out Sam’s ass.

After shooting the coach-slash-spotter a warning glare, Dean turned around, giving his back to Cas, completely giving up on any more attempt at conversation.

Sam just gave him a comforting pat on the arm and looked over his shoulder at the competition before his eyes flashed down to the ground, cheeks and ears pink.

Dean frowned. “What?” he mouthed.

“Gabriel winked at me,” Sam muttered and Dean rolled his eyes. Today’s match was going to be weird as hell.

*****

The audience outcome was pretty heartening. The stadium was almost full, and over half of the attendees were wearing his signature green and white colors or sporting signs with words of support or propositions of marriage. The rest were wearing blue and gold and had their own variety of signs. His opponents had their fans and that was never a bother for Dean, but knowing that the guy these people were supporting was an arrogant, presumptuous _asshole_ really got Dean’s teeth grinding.

What frustrated him more was the fact that he couldn’t even channel his frustration at his opponent by beating his ass in the ring, because that is exactly what Novak (screw ‘Cas’; ‘Cas’ was for friends and people that didn’t want to punch that guy in the face) wanted, for Dean to win.

There was literally no way for Dean to come out of this satisfied. He couldn’t let Novak win to spite him, because that would mean Dean _losing_ a match. And if he won, then Novak got what he wanted. If he was being honest, Dean just wanted this to be over so he could move on and forget this whole experience.

The first round went without incident. The first few never did. It was always the fighters testing the waters, getting a sense of the other’s style. Dean quickly caught on that Sam was right—Novak was lean and fast. He was six years younger than Dean and ten pounds lighter. While that might not help his offense, it certainly gave him a defensive advantage. He was able to jump in and out of Dean’s reach quickly, throw in a few jabs and get out of the way. Even with Novak apparently _letting_ Dean win, it was still a bit of a challenge for Dean to catch him.

Instinctively learning all he could about Novak’s fighting techniques was just frustrating Dean further, because he knew there was no point in doing so, because Novak was not going to give him a decent fight.

Of course, because today’s fight wasn’t finished being the most frustrating fight of Dean’s career, it just had to get worse. And by worse, Dean means Novak getting all sweaty and flushed with exertion around the third round. His dark hair is curling on his forehead and his chest is pink with a blush. There’s a large red circle on his defined cheekbone, the beginnings of a bruise from a decent right hook Dean landed the previous round. Dean can feel a few aches around his ribs and a ringing in his ear from some of Novak’s own landed hits, but it’s nothing he can’t work around.

Dean’s hostility towards Novak causes him to refrain from taking those few seconds of respite boxers take by leaning against each other to catch their breath. Dean doesn’t think he could take that kind of proximity with Novak without headbutting him. Especially with the guy looking so attractive when he’s sweaty and flushed, panting and eyes fixed intensely on Dean. It’s extremely distracting. And Dean wants to see all of that, between his legs and pinned under him, without the baggy sky-blue boxers.

Everything about this match sucks and it’s only halfway done. It feels like they’ve been going at it for hours, but it’s only the sixth round.

“Gabriel’s keeping track of the scores,” Sam informs him as he pours water in his mouth. Dean swallows thickly and looks around Bobby, his coach, who is standing in front of him pretending to give him instructions because Sam’s already told him the Novaks’ plan and it’s not worth actually _trying_ to win. Dean sees Gabriel pouring a bit of water over Novak’s head and Dean wonders what he did in a past life to deserve this kind of torture.

“Is he?” Dean asks off-handedly. He doesn’t usually talk between rounds, just sits there and lets Sam mop up his sweat, listens to Bobby’s gruff commands, but this match is already unorthodox enough already. The mouth-guard doesn’t make it an easy task, though. “I’ve noticed you two getting pretty cozy in the sidelines.”

Sam blushes again. “We are not,” he mumbles in protest. “We’re just…chatting.”

“Uh huh.” They only have a few seconds before round seven starts.

“Cas won the last round.”

“Novak,” Dean corrects through gritted teeth.

“Whatever. You’ve won three and so has he. I don’t know the exact scores, but you’re kind of tied from what Gabriel said. He’s surprisingly open with all this shady underhanded shit.”

Dean watched as Gabriel explained something to Novak with large hand gestures, Novak nodding along in understanding.

“He’s going to let me have this round,” Dean said with certainty.

Sure enough, the next round was Dean throwing jabs and hooks and Novak avoiding some and letting some land, but only making half-hearted attempts at any hits of his own.

The last few rounds went in that same infuriating back-and-forth, Novak letting him have a round and then coming back with fervor for the next one. Before they knew it, they were ending the tenth round and practically stumbling into their corners. They were both weak and tired, muscles aching in the most painful way. Dean had taken so many blows to the head that he was dizzy and it was easy to forget just how fucked up this match was, forget about scores and winning and championships. Just settle into the familiarity of the fight, punching and dodging and bouncing, like he was floating on air.

Dean had been watching Novak carefully the last rounds and his eyes were less reserved, less calculating than they had been at the beginning. It seemed like Novak was also forgetting about his goals for success, his plans to let Dean win, and was just doing what came naturally to him. Fighting Novak didn’t feel so robotic anymore. It was exactly what Dean wanted.

“Watch your back on this one, Dean,” Sam was saying, smothering a salve on a nasty bruise on Dean’s left eyebrow. He could still hear the crowd groaning when Novak had landed that blow in his head. “Gabriel says that Cas isn’t gonna pull any stops in this round. It’s the second to last, so apparently it’s time for Cas to shine before you take the gold. He told me that Cas is going to take this round and then give you the last to make sure you win.”

“This is so fucked up,” Dean slurred.

Sam shrugged in agreement.

“When this is over, you distract Gabriel. Don’t let him in the locker room with Cas—“

“Novak.”

“ _Whatever._ Point is, I wanna talk to him alone.”

Dean had no idea what Novak was planning, but he put his defenses on high just in case.

Halfway through the round, Novak landed a beautiful uppercut on Dean’s jaw, sending him flying back and landing on his ass.

The stadium _exploded_ with shocked, angry cries from Dean’s fans and victorious shrieks from Novak’s. Dean shook his head, disoriented, and looked up to see Novak hopping around the ring, dark blue gloves in the air, playing it up for the fans.

The referee was saying something to Dean, but Dean couldn’t hear him over the roaring of the crowd and the roaring in his own ears. He quickly got to his feet, spurred on by the cheers from his fans, and Novak turned smoothly around to face him again, cocky smirk in place and eyes dark.

If Dean was being honest, he would think Cas was getting off on this.

If Dean was being even more honest, he would admit that he was too.

The last two rounds passed in a furious blur. Cas didn’t seem to pull any stops, knowing that he had enraged Dean enough that Dean was going to give it his all and manage to win the last round without Cas’ help.

The bell rung, signaling the end of the round and the end of the match. Both of them were still on their feet, so it was all up to the judge’s scoring.

Dean didn’t notice anything. Didn’t notice the flooding of people swarming onto the ring, or the announcer taking the mic and declaring him the winner. Didn’t notice the belt being handed to him and Sam and some other random big dude from the crowd hoisting him up on their shoulders, just held up the belt and blew a few kisses into the crowd. He didn’t notice an interviewer coming up to him, answered all the questions on auto-pilot until:

“What happened there in the eleventh round, where he almost knocked you out? Were you afraid that you might lose?”

Dean contemplated the question for a moment, looked up and met Cas’ eyes across the ring, watching him with curiosity. His nose was bleeding from the last round, and Gabriel was diligently cleaning him up, which Dean considered was a real shame. Cas looked good with that blood on his face.

Dean grinned at the camera, all roguish charm and said, “I was afraid I was going to lose since the match started. Novak turned out to be a much more dangerous threat than I had anticipated. He’s an amazing fighter, and I feel like there was something holding him back tonight. Honestly, I think that if he had given it his all, he would’ve had my ass by the sixth round.”

Cas’ eyes went wide.

“I think he’s gonna go really far, and I’d love to fight him again in the future. So I can really see what he’s made of.”

Dean locked eyes with Cas for a moment, and the interviewer opened his mouth to ask something else, but Dean turned away and slipped out of the ring, followed by Sam, Bobby and some desperate fans asking for autographs. Security quickly took care of them and the three of them slipped into the locker room quickly.

“Well, that was the weirdest fight I’ve ever witnessed,” Bobby grumbled out. “In my entire career.”

Dean snorted. “Tell me about it.” He went through his duffle bag, pulling out a towel and laying out his clothes.

“What was that about?” Sam asked. “At the end? All that ‘he would’ve had my ass by the sixth round’ crap?”

Dean shrugged. “The little dick wanted publicity, I gave him some fucking publicity.”

There was a sudden roar of sound from the crowd as the locker room doors opened, then it stopped as they closed again, Cas and Gabriel stepping inside and meeting eyes with the three of them.

There was an awkward silence for a moment, and then Gabriel started rolling back and forth on his heels.

“Soooo…” He grinned at Sam. “Sasquatch, why don’t you and I sneak out the back and get some beers. On me. You can come too, grandpa,” he added to Bobby, who glared at him and probably would have said something rude if Sam hadn’t grabbed his arm, saying, ‘Good idea!’ and rushing out the doors with Gabriel, leaving Dean and Cas alone.

Left alone, Dean just turned back to his clothes and grabbed his towel, headed towards the showers. He slipped out of his uniform boxers and underwear. He turned the water on and stood under the spray, biting back a moan as he felt the uncomfortable tacky feeling of dry sweat on his skin melt away, the heat soothing his sore muscles.

“I appreciate your words during the interview,” came Cas’ voice from behind him and Dean looked over his shoulder briefly, raising an eyebrow at Novak, who was just standing there. Dean wasn’t embarrassed, he’d been naked around plenty of other guys before.

“You’re welcome.” He turned back to the shower, but after a while of feeling Cas’ eyes still on his back, he turned around. “Anything else I could help you with?”

Castiel reached forward and touched his fingers—which seemed to belong more to a pianist than a boxer—to Dean’s jaw, angling it.

“Sorry about the bruise.”

“I’ve had worse.” Dean’s throat was dry. “Beautiful punch by the way. Sorry about your nose.”

“You didn’t break it,” Cas assured him.

They stood there for a moment, half-under the shower spray, Cas’ fingers on Dean’s jaw and Dean’s eyes cataloguing all the bruises and marks across Cas’ naked torso. His nostrils were coated with dry flecks of blood and he smelled of sweat. Dean wanted to lick him.

“Wanna join me?” he asked, and Cas pressed his lips together before moving forward and pressing them to Dean’s.

Dean grabbed Cas’ hips and pulled him under the spray, still wearing his uniform boxers and getting them completely soaked. At least he had taken off his shoes before coming to talk to Dean.

They were both soaked in an instant, lips sliding wetly against each other’s, Cas’ hands going to the back of Dean’s head. Dean pushed Cas up against the shower tiles, aligning his body along the other man’s, feeling himself starting to get aroused.

Dean pulled away from Cas’ lips to tug Cas’ shorts off, crouching down to slip them off his feet and toss them away, then straightening up to kiss him again.

“You’re kind of a dick and I’m not sure if I even like you,” Dean muttered, wet hands cupping the meat of Cas’ ass.

“So, what is this, then?” Cas ran a hand down Dean’s chest. “Hate sex?”

Dean pulled a face. “I’m too sore for actual hate sex.” He kissed Cas’ neck. “More like ‘you looked really hot sweating and panting on the ring, so let’s fuck’ sex.” He felt the rumble of Cas’ laughter against his chest.

There was a large red mark on Cas’ shoulder where Dean had gotten him somewhere in the fourth round and Dean pressed his lips to it, making Castiel hiss slightly and Dean grinned.

“You know what really got me into boxing?” he asked softly, kissing down Cas’ chest.

“The money?” Cas guessed.

Dean rolled his eyes. “No, you ass. Other than the adrenaline and the love of a challenge?” He straightened up and nudged his nose against Cas’, lips an inch away from his. “I got off on getting pretty boys like you all bruised up.”

Cas grinned so wide Dean could feel the points of his teeth his bottom lip. “That’s not very healthy, I hope you realize.”

Dean rolled his hips against Cas’, feeling Cas’ dick swell against his. “Probably all the blows I’ve taken to the head.”

“Possibly,” Cas agreed, then slipped his hand up to Dean’s jaw, angling it up so he had a clear view of the large purple blossoming bruise. “But I think I can see the appeal.” He pressed the tip of his finger to the very center of the bruise, and Dean hissed harshly, face twisted in a pained wince.

“You really are a dick,” Dean rumbled and caught Cas’ lips again.

They kissed harder now, biting and pulling at each other’s lips, tongues wrapped around each other.

“We should make this quick,” Cas gasped. “People will start asking questions if we don’t show our faces soon. There are fans waiting.”

“Right.” Dean quickly grabbed Cas’ dick, bringing it to full hardness as Cas moaned and hitched his hips, then returned the favor quickly. Their skin slipped and slid against each other, lips meeting sometimes and other times kissing any inch of skin within reach.

Dean pushed in, pressing Cas completely against the shower wall and knocked Cas’ hand out of the way, taking both their dicks in the same fist. His other hand gripped Cas’ hip to hold him steady as he jacked them off together, the water making it easy and wet.

“Fuck,” Cas breathed and Dean was pretty sure it was the first time he had heard the sweet-faced blue-eyed boy swear, and it was the hottest thing he’d ever heard. Dean started moving his hips too, dick sliding smoothly against Cas’.

Cas, not one to let Dean do all the work, grabbed Dean’s head and angled it again, so he could put his mouth to the bruise and suck at it, the sharp sting of pain making Dean cry out softly and jerk his hips harder.

One of Cas’ hands held his head in place and the other slid down Dean’s back to squeeze his ass, pulling him harder against him and Dean groaned, nipping Cas’ earlobe. Slick fingers slipped between Dean’s cheeks and Dean gave a firm squeeze of his hand, savoring the trembling little moan that rippled down Cas’ body.

It was a bit too soon for Dean’s liking, but he could feel the heat pooling in his lower abdomen, could feel a blush spreading across his chest and shoulders, and then Cas started tracing carefully the rim of his hole before gently prodding and Dean almost came, breathing open-mouthed against Cas’ throat.

A finger pushed inside, moved in and out, and Dean thrust harder against Cas, hips stuttering as he came over their stomachs, almost immediately washed away by the water.

It’s as Dean is gasping through the aftershocks that Cas follows, spurred by the twitching of Dean’s dick against his and the tightening of Dean’s fist around both of them.

They collapse, Cas leaning against the shower wall and Dean against Cas, who supports his weight. The water gets in their mouths and noses as they try to get their breathing back in check, but they trade a few kisses and gentle touches, and then they’re pulling away. Not too far, just enough to look at each other.

“You said you’d like to fight me again,” Cas mutters, eyes hazy and voice slurred and Dean preens at the thought that he caused that.

“Yes I did.” He kisses the corner of Cas’ jaw. “In a few weeks, after I’ve recovered from this beating.”

“I was the one who was beaten in this match, remember?”

Dean cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that? Are you absolutely positive?”

Cas smirks and Dean kisses him again, because he hates that cocky-ass smirk on that asshole’s face.

“Rematch?” Dean asks quietly.

“Rematch.”


End file.
